Ancient Penguin Evil
by silver ruffian
Summary: Big bad goes out for a walk, gets the munchies, decides to chow down on the local populace.
1. breaking news

Title: Ancient Penguin Evil (Rated PG-13) (1/?)

Fandom: Supernatural, Madagascar

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, Sarah Blake, Skipper, Rico, Private and Kowalski, the Madagascar penguins.

A/N: Yeah, you read right. I think of all the characters in Madagascar,visually the penguins are the easiest ones to fit in RL. If you can't wrap your head around that, then just think of Sam and Dean as being computer generated.

Spoilers: None that I can think of.

Warnings: cussing, weird violence of the tentacled persuasion, gratuitous violence. Dean to the rescue (maybe), Sam and Sarah Blake in peril.

Summary: Big bad goes out for a walk, gets the munchies, decides to chow down on the local populace.

Disclaimer: _You_ know I don't own them._ I_ know I don't own them. Must you torment me with that cruel knowledge?

* * *

_**Chapter One - breaking news**_

It's the Winchester way. Just follow the screams.

Dean pops around from behind the corner, brings the Colt up and fires five shots in quick succession. Good solid hits, every last one, right in the thing's head and torso. It staggers backwards, howling and yelping, giving the last tourist enough time to scramble past Dean into safety.

Damn critter looks like some kind of giant freakoid mutant penguin the size of a school bus, slick pearl grey skin, red eyes, with tentacles where those useless wings or flippers or whatever the hell they are would be. God, this sonofabitch is fugly. It hurts Dean's eyes to look at it.

Bad as it is to look at it, the smell is much much worse. Dean makes a face as he catches a whiff of sardines and sulfur, mixed in with other smells that he's pretty sure are biological in origin, like blood and bile. He makes a conscious effort not to breathe too deeply, doesn't want to identify what all that funk's composed of.

A tentacle comes whipping through the air at him, and Dean ducks down without much thought. The tentacle takes out a pretty sizeable chunk of concrete right where his head was. Dean brings up the shotgun, tracks the bastard, and pulls the trigger. The tentacle breaks apart in a blossom of torn grey flesh and green goo that's probably blood.

Good.

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Dean smirks in his best Ahnald imitation, and as usual, the brilliance of it is lost on the twenty or so tourists cowering in the space behind him. Can't really blame 'em, though. They came _that_ close to being eaten.

Dean leans forward around the corner, just enough to see.

The tentacle re-forms itself in mid-air.

_Son of a bitch…_

That's the Winchester way, too. Nothing's ever _that_ easy.

But apparently the fug's had enough. Getting blasted like that _did _hurt, apparently. It bawls like a bitch as it retreats, shuffling back towards the amphitheater, and that's something, at least.

Helicopters buzz around overhead. News choppers or police, doesn't really matter. Dean doesn't even bother looking up. No sense in giving them an even better look at his face.

He shifts the duffel over to his right shoulder as he puts his back to the wall. Got Dad's journal in there, his other sawed off, holy water, some amulets Bobby gave him, salt, silver, and special loads of ammo.

Lots of special loads.

Hell, he didn't know exactly what to pack for, what to expect. Real good way to get killed, all right. Dean could see John Winchester shaking his head, wherever he was. _You need intel, Dean. You don't go in blind. You have to know what you're dealing with._

_Sorry, Dad. Not this time._

Only thing Dean knew was half an hour ago he was sitting at that fast food place, red meat and pie well within striking distance, when he started having the mother of all bad feelings, about Sam and Sarah Blake. She was in town, and she wanted to spend the afternoon at the zoo. Two's company, three's a crowd, and Dean figured he could find something to occupy his time while those two crazy kids caught up on old times.

Then the bottom dropped out and everything went straight to hell in the proverbial handbasket.

It was the same damn feeling he'd had the night Jessica died, the same feeling that told him to turn back that night. It made him feel cold all over, and Dean couldn't ignore it, then or now. Underneath the bright California sunshine Dean can still feel that coldness slither and worm its way down his spine.

He shakes it off.

Got work to do.

One of the tourists, a tall skinny kid with really bad acne, raises his cell phone up to take a picture of him, and Dean cocks an eyebrow at him and shakes his head _no_. _Don't piss off the man with the guns, you moron._

The kid gets the hint and puts the phone away. Not that Dean would've shot him, of course, but the last thing he needs is the feds back on his trail, with proof positive that Dean Winchester's alive and well.

What the hell. He's screwed already, anyway. Lead pipe clinch there are news choppers in the area. He's probably made the 'breaking news' segment: "...this just in, presumed dead fugitive Dean Winchester has turned up at the zoo alive, armed and dangerous. Now let's go to chopper five..."

_Welcome to my world,_ Dean thinks to himself.

The tourists stare at him, take it all in: the attitude, the guns, the duffel on his shoulder. He's not a cop, but he handles himself like he knows what he's doing.

They can sense on some level that Dean's a freak. A freak with lethal combat skills, but a freak nonetheless, and they're normal: families, wives, husbands, kids. But guess what boys and girls? There are things out there in the dark, things with teeth, and sometimes being in the bright sunlight just isn't enough to save your unsuspecting ass.

One of the dads, a big dude with a brush cut, edges a little closer. "What --what the hell is that thing?"

"Sorry." Dean grins as he pops the clip on his Colt, exchanges it for another one that was blessed by one of Jim Murphy's colleagues. "Didn't get the memo on _that_ one."

Brush Cut's rattled. "What the hell do you mean you don't know, you bastard?"

Some of the other men behind him start grumbling.

"Excuse me?" Dean says darkly. He raises the shotgun up, just a little.

"Sorry…sorry. Dammit, what do you think it is?" Joe Six Pack is freaking out, and Dean sure in the hell doesn't blame him, but he's not about to let himself get jumped by a mob of hysterical tourists. Sam would never let him hear the end of it.

Dean shrugs. "Oh, I dunno. Hell demon bent on world domination. Or just a mutant freak out for a stroll. Big bad goes out for a walk, gets the munchies, decides to chow down on the local populace."

"That's…that's not funny."

"Damn right it isn't." There's a dangerous glint in Dean's eyes. "That freak's got ahold of my brother, and I'm gonna tear 'em a new one."

The PA system squawks into life overhead. Dean glances up, frowning. _Fuck. Now what?_

"Hi there!" The voice over the intercom is male, sounds suspiciously like Charlton Heston or Robert Stack. "I'm not with security, I'm just pretending I am for today. Well, as you probably know by now, we're run into some technical difficulties, so to avoid being eaten alive, I suggest that everybody run like hell for the nearest exits and not look back. Thank you for visiting the San Diego Zoo, and have a nice day!"

The PA system crackles with static, then:

"Well, boys, we might not make it out of here alive, but we're gonna take that thing with us. What, Kowalski?"

"Uh, Skipper, I think you need to push that button…."

"Huh, is this thing still on?"

The PA system crackles and screeches like a damned soul. It goes on and on.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. Damn civilians.

"Well?" He quirks one eyebrow at the tourists, and they stare back at him, all deer in the headlights. "You heard the man." Dean nods in the direction behind them. "Normal's that way. Time for you to go."

Joe Six Pack and his brood head out in _that_ direction.

Dean follows the screams.

**000**

TBC


	2. a big damn hero sandwich

Title: _**Ancient Penguin Evil, part 2/? **_

Disclaimer: You know I don't own them. I know I don't own them. Must you torment me with that cruel knowledge?

* * *

_**Chapter Two - a big damn hero sandwich**_

"He didn't do his job so I had to do it for him." Skipper smacks the duct tape bound security guard with his flipper. "Typical human."

Rico grunts in approval as he slaps one more piece of duct tape around the human's taped ankles. Private tears off another piece from the roll and hands it over.

Skipper paces back and forth on the security console. "Good thing we never depend on humans for help anyway. Be a hell of a world if we did." The guard's eyes widen in disbelief as he tracks this short round penguin strutting back and forth in front of him.

"Kowalski!" Skipper barks.

The tallest penguin standing lookout at the door snaps to attention. "Sir!"

"I feel the need for a log entry."

"Yes, sir!" Ramrod straight, Kowalski pulls out a notepad and a purple crayon.

"Captain's log: Engaging in the final endgame against our ancient tenacled foe."

Kowalski scribbles furiously.

Skipper raises one eyebrow, stops, and stares at him. "What happened to our equipment upgrade, soldier? That was a PDA, wasn't it?"

Kowalski shrugs. "Etch A Sketch, sir. Unreliable. Kept losing your notes."

Skipper nods. "Ah, I see. Sometimes the old reliable are…old and reliable." He shrugs, then resumes pacing. "Captain's Log: We spent all our time before breaking out of that zoo up in New York, never thought for a moment that we'd have to break _into_ a zoo, but here we are. Now we're trapped in this whacked out place, surrounded by terrified humans, idiots like this joker here."

The guard leans forward staring and Skipper slaps him in the face again. Dude's head does a pretty good imitation of a bobblehead doll, and the Skipper's well pleased with himself. "Cute and cuddly ain't gonna fly here. We may have to call upon Private to make the ultimate sacrifice."

Private's eyes widen. He jerks so hard he tears the piece of duct tape he's holding in two.

Skipper fixes the guard with his hypnotic stare, makes several slow passes in the air with his flippers. "You didn't see _anything_."

The guard's eyes get wide and glassy.

"Put a fork in him. He's _done_." Skipper hops down, waddles determinedly for the door. "We're a big damn hero sandwich between this thing and the rest of the world. We got a job to do here, boys. Time we got down to it."

Private and Kowalski follow Skipper out. Rico swallows the roll of duct tape as he brings up the rear.

_**000**_

"Such a rude boy!" the little old grey haired lady snarls at Dean. He just shrugs it off. Gets that reaction quite a lot from people, has all his damn life. He sidesteps that vicious swipe she takes at him with that big brown purse of hers. She's pretty feisty for an old chick, and Dean doesn't like the way the other tourists watch the action. If he shows any weakness they'll be all over him.

Granny takes aim at him with that purse of hers again.

_The hell with that._ Dean raises his shotgun up a little. He doesn't point it directly at her, but she_ thinks_ he's going to, and that's just enough to get her to back off, just enough to make the others pause. Dean can't help but notice that those black bifocals of hers make her eyes look _way_ too big for her face. It's a creepy effect.

"Lady," Dean growls roughly, "I can so be your worst nightmare right now."

"She knows which way to go!" one of the frightened tourists yelps. Plaid shorts. Old baldy dude's wearing black, green and yellow plaid shorts. Dean tries not to stare. Could be one reason why the dude's survived for this long. Maybe the fug's a picky eater and wouldn't be caught eating something as ugly as that.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You can follow Witch Hazel here, but don't come cryin' to me when you end up as snack food." Granny's eyes narrow. She growls at Dean and Dean growls right back at her. He watches the way her hands tighten up on those purse straps.

Dean hears John's whiskey smooth voice inside his head a lot these days. _The man with the gun always has more credibility. Civilians are like drowning swimmers; watch your ass and take charge of the situation, son, or they will drag you down with them. _

These idiots just stand there, frozen in place.

"**MOVE YOUR ASSES!" **Dean roars, puts everything he's got into his command voice. He motions with his shotgun in the direction these dumbasses should go.** "NOW, DAMMIT!"**

The voice startles them. First one moves, jerkily, hesitantly at first, then another, in the right direction. Granny's the last one to go, trailing the others, and from the way she glares at him Dean's pretty sure that if looks could kill he'd be pushing up daisies right now.

People are strange, no damn doubt about it. Dean can read the average person like a book, but he really prefers demons. They're comparably simple. They want something: your soul, your ass, your blood, life energy, you name it. That's stuff Dean can wrap his head around, and he certainly doesn't even consider for one minute how screwed up his mindset probably is. Hey, he's a hunter, and this comes with the territory.

Demons he gets. People are friggin' crazy.

Dean backs up. He's not about to leave his six wide open and unprotected. He's pretty sure that they're all headed in the right direction, but he's not about to assume anything. He takes a couple more steps and finally feels comfortable enough to turn his back.

Dean walks right into Granny.

Something hard slams into Dean right between his legs, right in the family jewels.

He dimly realizes it's her foot. The pain is white hot and consumes the whole damn world. His knees buckle, but he still lashes out, takes a pretty damn good swing at her with his left. It's a good solid hit. Her head jerks sideways from the blow, and those black bifocals of hers fly off and land in the grass nearby.

She smiles at him, a weird, tight grin. The bitch doesn't blink. Dean stares at her. Her eyes are all wrong, too big. They really_ do_ take up most of her forehead.

That's when Dean realizes that she's fugly. That's when he realizes he's _sooo _screwed.

"Rude meat," she whispers slyly, and Dean raises the shotgun, at least he tries to, but he can't. She raises her hand and gestures at him. Pain explodes inside Dean's head, fills up his skull with shrieking like claws on chalkboard and almost unbearable pressure. He actually sees just about every color in the rainbow before even _that_ fades, and everything goes blinding white.

_**000**_

Sam comes awake, slow and sluggish. Head hurts, a low heavy ache right between his eyes. It's quiet, except for crunching and smacking noises, and he tries not to groan into his pillow.

He doesn't notice yet that he really doesn't _have_ a pillow.

Huh. They're back in their skeevy motel room, the really awful one with the red blue and green plaid wallpaper. Dean took one look and snorted. "Plaid. Dude, what the hell were they thinking? Damn plaid." Must have been something about the pattern or the color combination or some damn thing, because Dean ate like a horse from then on.

"I gotta eat to take my mind off this, Sam," and that was it. The room was take-out Heaven from then on: Chinese food, pancakes and sausage, _any _and _everything_. Dean brought doggie bags in from the diners and restaurants they went to. The doggie bags never survived the night.

From the sound of it Dean's sitting on the bed (with his boots on, naturally) gleefully scarfing down a supersized portion of zesty nachos and slurping up a super-sized Coke. The noises continue for a few more seconds, and Sam's nose gradually informs his brain that maybe, just maybe, that first impression was dead wrong.

For one thing, Sam can smell sardines, a food stuff that Dean has _never_ been a fan of.

Never.

For another, there's sulfur in the air.

Sam catches a whiff of perfume, light and floral scented, and his brain makes the connection right away.

_Oh God. Sarah._

He jerks awake as his eyes open, and Sarah pushes him back.

Overturned tables and chairs in front of them. The floor all around them is gritty with broken glass and plates, spilled food and drink. It takes Sam just a little longer to put things together. Food court. Sarah. Zoo. California.

"Thought it killed you," Sarah whispers. "It picked you up, threw you into these tables over here."

Sam nods. It all comes back in a rush. He moves forward a little too fast and immediately regrets it.

He turns his head and sees about fifteen people cowering along the same wall he's got his back to. Young, old, black and white, male and female. Families, They hold onto each other, try to duck down, stay hidden behind those overturned tables, and Sam suddenly gets the feeling that hiding behind tables isn't gonna do a damn bit of good against whatever that is making those godawful mouth sounds on the other side of the room.

"Don't apologize." Sam smiles at her, and the lines of tension in her face relax a little. "I'm just glad you're okay. We'll get out of this." He struggles up and her eyes widen a little at how unsteady he is. "Gotta see what this damn thing is up to first."

Sam somehow gets on his hands and knees. He hears crunching sounds now (_bone_) and he takes a deep breath as he stays low. He peers around the corner of the table and all the saliva in his mouth dries up.

Ugly doesn't even begin to cover _this_.

The giant penguin thing sits on the far side of the room, right next to those glass double doors. Sam sees grey skin, red eyes, and pinkish grey tentacles instead of flippers, and as Sam watches it opens its maw full of needle-sharp teeth and very daintily drops a squealing pot-bellied pig into its gullet. The way those tentacles move through the air, quick and lethal, Sam highly doubts that he or anyone else would be able to make it out the door past the damn thing.

It sits back against the wall as it chews, slowly, thoughtfully. It idly scratches its belly with several of the longer tentacles.

"Gotta get out of here," Sam mutters to himself. His mind races as he tries to remember where the exits were. The place is pretty well torn up, debris and broken furniture everywhere. When they make their move, they've got to make it damn fast.

Sam knows why the damn thing is taking its time, knows why it didn't just pop him into its mouth like a peanut instead of laying him out cold. He's seen the same kind of behavior every time he and Dean ate out.

This is a buffet. The animals are appetizers.

He and Sarah and the rest of the people in the room are the main course.

_**000**_

_**tbc**_


	3. FUBAR

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Dean, Sam, Sarah, Granny, Skipper, Rico, Kowalski, or even Private.

* * *

_**Chapter 3 - FUBAR**_

Hanging upside down, Dean idly wonders why he's staring at Granny's ass.

Granny's fugly ass isn't _that_ bad to look at. She has nice muscle tone.

Dean starts wondering whether she works out.

Then he starts wondering_ why_ he's wondering that.

Something rounded and somewhat bony digs into his stomach, and he gradually realizes that Granny Fug's walking along with him slung casually over her shoulder like a cheap scarf. Definitely one thing he won't be sharing when he meets up with Sammy again.

Waking up is always a plus, but a lot of times it bites the big one, too. Dean's regained consciousness in a lot of weird places, some weirder than this. Spreadeagled, tied down to a bed or a heavy wooden table. Chained to one of those black altars, naked as the day he was born. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in some dark basement somewhere. He's even regained consciousness strapped into a heavy wooden chair with leather restraints. He really appreciates it when the restraints are lined with sheepskin. Seriously.

For a while there, about two years ago, for three months straight Dean seemed to be in a rut: he found himself wearing the latest fashion in canvas straitjackets in padded cells in three different Institutions For The Criminally Insane in Texas, Maine, and Florida. That's your tax dollars at work, folks.

And just one more reason for him to hate Florida. With a passion.

Dean's also a little _too_ familiar with standard police issue handcuffs, but he knows a trick or two. The person who invented metal paper clips is. A. God. No question.

All this bondage isn't even a part of Dean's social life. It's the life of a hunter, and it's a given that some parts of that life suck like buttermilk through a chocolate covered straw.

His head aches and his eyes feel funny. He's heavy in the body and light-headed all the same time. Everything shifts white and then fades in and out as whatever she zapped him with flares inside his head, right behind his eyes.

When he glances over at her other shoulder, Dean can't believe his luck.

She's got his duffel, and sticking out of the bag is the butt end of his favorite sawed off.

_Come to papa, sweetheart, _Dean thinks to himself with a grin. _We got work to do._

All he's got to do is just reach over and grab the shotgun, cold cock Granny upside the head with it, and plant one hard right knee in her stomach, just for starters. Then he can get to work ganking her wide-eyed fugly ass.

That's the plan, at least.

He _thinks_ about moving.

His fingers twitch. That's _it_. That's _all._

_Damn._

It gets worse.

Granny chuckles to herself. Bitch knows he's awake. She pats his left butt cheek, even gives it a little squeeze. She's feeling the goods like some _haus frau_ picking out produce. _Your ass belongs to me now, boy_ doesn't even begin to cover this.

_Bitch._

Dean can't see her face, but he's pretty sure she's smiling.

Not one of his best days so far. First she lays him out cold with that mojo hand of hers, and now this. Right then and there Dean's glad that there's nobody around to see this.

"All right, boys," this voice calls out. "Target sighted." Dude sounds military. The voice sounds really familiar, and Dean frowns as much as his wiped out facial muscles will let him.

"Unhand that unconscious civilian right now. Your reign of terror is ended."

_Oh, shit._

"Aaaahhh," Granny rumbles. "More fresh meat for my pookie." She carelessly shrugs Dean off her shoulder and he face-plants right into the pavement.

Dean sees white, vast constellations of stars, and it's all so pretty and dazzling it's all he can do but lay there for a second or two. Body's still not cooperating, and besides, he's a little tired. He can just curl up and take a short nap before he goes to work on her fugly ass. No harm, no foul.

"Sir! Nothing we have works on her---" another voice says in the confusion.

'Holy Shittake mushrooms! "Fall back, men. Fall back! Rico!"

"No! Don't eat me!" A third voice, sounds like some scared English kid.

Dean would like nothing better than to lay there, but he can't. This fug needs to be drop-kicked all the way back to hell.

_Man up, Winchester,_ Dean whispers to himself. _Get up. _

His body isn't listening.

_**I SAID GET THE HELL UP. NOW.**_

It's slow and steady, First the wobbly muscles in his legs start cooperating, and Dean pushes himself up on his hands and knees. Not the most dignified position he's ever been in, but it's a start. He hears scuffling and movement behind him.

He shakes his head to clear it, and there's his duffel with his shotgun sticking out. He snags it by the strap, pulls the bag over to him, and there's another lucky break. His Colt 1911 is right there on top. Baby's got a full clip in her, and she's ready to go.

Time to get to work, damn it.

_**000000**_

Sam flips his cell phone shut. No joy. No service in this area.

Sarah flinches as she hears all those eating sounds coming from behind the barrier of overturned tables and chairs in front of her. Slurping, crunching, and God knows what other sounds, all wet and nasty sounding, ands she does not even want to see how that damn monstrosity is making those noises, or what it's chewing on. She quirks an eyebrow at Sam and he shakes his head.

"Can't get ahold of Dean." Sam glances up at the ceiling. "I hear helicopters overhead. Police. News crews, maybe. If Dean sees this on the news he'll come."

Sam gets up slowly, kneels on his hands and feet. "We can't just stay here and wait for this thing to start the main course."

Sarah glances over Sam's left shoulder and her eyes widen slightly. "Uh, Sam?" she says slowly. "I think we're in deeper than we think we are."

Sam doesn't answer. He glances over his shoulder and really, he's not that surprised to see that several of the civilians have armed themselves with various kitchen utensils, steak and butter knives and the like. They're staring at Sam and Sarah like they've got something on their minds.

The two in the front look like the brains of the operation, and Sam wonders how this mob managed to form up so quickly. They're nerds, one short and fat, the other one tall and skinny. The short fat one stares at Sarah hungrily and that sets Sam's teeth on edge.

"We got an idea on how to get out of here," the short one says, "and we need your help."

Sam positions himself so he's between them and Sarah. She rolls her eyes at his back. Chivalry isn't dead, then, and she wonders why his gesture irritates her.

"We need to move now," Sam says mildly. His eyes flicker over the mob as he makes decisions. Whose ass to kick first, which one is the greater threat. He sees the way several of the men in the back hold those steak knives of theirs. Clumsy, not efficient, not the way Dean would hold a knife, practiced, confident. They're amateurs then. That's something.

"Well, we figure that thing out there just wants to eat. If we feed it enough, maybe it'll leave us alone long enough for the rest of us to escape."

Sam huffs. "And what do you plan on feeding it?"

Short round blinks. "You."

Sam smirks a little. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You're tall enough, not too old, so you're probably not gonna be that tough. Think of it this way, you'll be doing a service for your fellow man." Tall and skinny's eyes crawl over Sarah. "And woman."

"That's the most screwed up plan I've ever heard," Sam replies calmly.

"It is logical." Short round announces grandly, in a piss-poor imitation of Leonard Nimoy as Mr. Spock. Sam shakes his head in disbelief. This jackass has seen too many damn movies. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

"Screw it," the tall drink of water says roughly as the mob inches its way towards Sam and Sarah. "Let's toss him out and see what happens."

_**000000**_

_Bitch. _

Dean can still feel her fingers digging into his ass.

His eyes aren't working that well when he stands up and turns around. Everything's a blur. He sees movement, but what Dean's really keyed in on is the low rumbling laugh that Granny Fug's making.

He has to squint to get the range on her. She's got her back to him. His vision slides sideways and then sharpens to crystal clarity.

"Hey!" Dean bellows.

Granny snarls as she turns around. Good. He wants to look in those oversized eyes of hers when he pulls the trigger. Her mouth stretches wide as she snarls at him, and Dean lets her have both barrels of the sawed off. She staggers backwards, snarling, as Dean switches up and brings the Colt up in a steady one-handed grip. Five shots total, placed in the head and shoulder, but it doesn't drop her.

It gives her something to think about though. She turns and charges away in the opposite direction away from Dean, clears that twelve foot concrete wall with plenty of room to spare, shrieking as she goes.

The bitch ain't happy.

It's a good thing, too, because right about then that white pain in his head flares up and he staggers sideways a little. Dean feels it when his knees hit the concrete, a sharp jolt that travels all the way up his spine. He's dimly aware that the others are standing around him, not too close, though.

"At ease, soldier." The one standing directly in front of him says. "That was some pretty fancy shooting. What's your name, son?"

Dean raises his head. He can't see. He can't even see…

That tone of voice makes him want to square his shoulders. It makes his heart ache instead. He squints. "Dad?"

"Dad? Not likely. What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? I asked you a question, young mammal. Now spit it out."

Can't be. This can't be. His sight clears up again, and Dean just stares. He snort-chuckles to himself, and right then and there he knows that he's totally FUBAR in the head.

This penguin is standing right in front of him, flippers on its hips, and the damn thing sounds just like John Winchester.

_**000000**_

**_A/N: FUBAR - F'd Up Beyond All Recognition._**

_**TBC**_


	4. a well oiled machine

_**A/N:**_ Yep, this is a story I neglected. Not any more. Two more chaps to go, folks.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sarah, the Winchesters, or Skipper, Rico, Private, and Kowalski. I'm just playing with them for a while.

* * *

_**Chapter 4 – a well oiled machine**_

Short Round hits the ground first.

Sure enough, after they get everyone all riled up, the two geeks in charge try to skitter out of the way and let the mob take over. They're fast.

Sam's faster.

He breaks Tall and Skinny's nose with one jab. Payback for the way he leered at Sarah. Short Round get's punched in the face, and Sam's none too gentle about that.

They're not military or police. They're not highly trained, just a bunch of civilians trying to save their own skins. They won't listen, so Sam has to make an example of the two lead idiots.

The rest of them fall back. The older dude with the table leg in his hands eyes Sam nervously, like he still thinks hitting Sam with it would be a pretty damn fine idea. But that means that he'd have to get close to Sam, and Table Leg doesn't have the balls for that.

"Kew boke ma hose!" Tall and Skinny shrieks. Blood flows out from between his fingers as he clutches his face. Short Round stares up at Sam wide-eyed.

"Sure did," Sam drawls softly. This is like a scene out of one of those movies Dean likes. Sam stands there feeling all proud and macho and that's all blown to hell as Sarah nudges him in the shoulder.

"Uh, Sam?" She sounds nervous as she glances behind them.

"What?"

"Sam!" Sarah says sharply. "We gotta go. Now!"

The mob backs up wide eyed, staring up at something in the air behind Sam and Sarah.

"Shit," Sam mutters to himself.

* * *

Dean puts his back to that brick wall behind him and does the only thing he can do.

He laughs.

The tallest, skinniest penguin is carrying something that looks like a PDA. The roly poly, extremely cute and wide-eyed one comes up to Dean just then. "Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!"

Dean grunts. _Huh. It's the scared British kid._

Then there are the other two: this rough looking one with a Mohawk, for God's sake. And the other one, the shortest one. He's in command. If John Winchester were reincarnated as a penguin he'd come back as this dude. Ah,_ bird_.

Dean snorts. This is something he's definitely _not _gonna share with Sam when this is all over.

They're not cops or security, that's for sure. They haven't tried to put the cuffs on him or tried to disarm him.

They're hunters. They have to be. They talk like hunters, act like hunters. Dean feels flashes of Granny's mojo sizzling white hot through his nerve endings. Figures she'd screw him up inside the head so badly he can't see straight.

"Something funny, soldier?" the lead penguin snaps. There's still something in the tone that Dean recognizes. Military. Army or Marine. "If you can stop laughing for a moment I want to invite you to join our merry little group."

The tall one gasps. He stares at Dean warily, and motions for the shorter one to follow him over to the side. Dean gets to his feet and goes over to retrieve his duffel.

"Skipper, he's…he's a mammal!"

"You're a bigot, Kowalski. I'm surprised at you. Did you see his moves? Velvety smooth! Kid knows how to handle himself. He made that old bag turn tail and run."

Dean pulls out his cell and calls Sam's number. Nothing. He checks his duffel, sees if Granny took anything. Everything's still there. While he does the little penguin with the British accent comes over and just stands there, looking up at Dean rather adoringly.

"We can always use a fifth, even if it is a mammal." Skipper continues confidently.

The penguin with the Mohawk eyes Dean rather doubtfully as he waddles over. He stares up just as Dean pulls out his Colt semi-automatic, checks the clip and slips it into his back waistband.

Mohawk's eyes light up. He drools a little. "Oh, you like that, huh?" Dean smirks.

Dude doesn't say very much, just grins and nods his head up and down rather enthusiastically. Then he reaches around behind himself and from somewhere (Dean's still not sure from where) pulls out an unlit stick of dynamite.

Mohawk gets really excited then. "Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!"

"Rico, stash the high explosives, will ya?" the short one calls out. "Save it for the finale."

Rico looks disappointed but he puts the dynamite back. Somehow. Somewhere.

"You got a name, kid?" Dean drawls smoothly to the short cute one. Dean takes out his silver knife, slips it into his ankle sheath.

"I'm Private," the 'kid' chirps.

"Private, huh? My name's Dean. Dean Winchester."

Private looks startled. "You mean like the rifle?"

"Yeah, like the rifle. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one…" Dean shakes his head. He breaks open his shotgun, replaces the spent shells with silver and consecrated iron loads. "Who's your buddy?"

"Oh. That's Rico." Private nods at Mohawk. "And over there is Kowalski and Skipper."

"Private! " Skipper calls out. "Stop giving out intel on us! He hasn't joined up yet!"

Private cringes a little. "Sorry."

"Kowalski, I need stats on the mission," Skipper continues.

Koalwski consults his PDA. "Well, with his addition our chance of success goes up 33%."

"33% huh? What were our chances before?"

"Zero, sir."

"I like those percentage points. Nice round numbers I can get behind." Skipper waddles over to Dean. "All right young mammal. I like the cut of your jib."

"Oh, you do, huh?" Dean smirks.

"Yep. What do you say you join up with us and help us kick Granny's keister?"

"She have anything to do with that fugly with the tentacles?"

"She's the mastermind of this nefarious plot."

"I'm in. Which is?"

"Every seventy five years that fugly as you so quaintly call it gets a hankerin' for fine dining. Humans."

"My brother and his friend are probably on that bitch's menu. How do we kill this thing?"

"We don't have a clue," Skipper says grandly.

"You…what?"

"We got zip. Nada. A big goose egg—"

"Okay, okay, I heard you the first time," Dean sighs. He's still got those two flare guns and extra flares in the duffel. There's always stuff around that burns. "Fire's always good."

"Ka-boom! " Rico bounces up and down. He's got that stick of unlit dynamite out again.

Dean shrugs. "That'll work, too." Skipper gives Rico a withering look and the dynamite disappears.

"Good. Welcome aboard! I'm Skipper. This is Kowalski. You've already met Rico and Private."

"Dean Winchester."

"Winchester, huh? Like the---"

Dean glares at him.

"Okay, okay. You know the rest."

"You down there," This voice booms out from above. "This is the police."

Dean glances up at the police chopper hovering treetop level. "Crap."

"Put down your weapons and keep your hands where we can see them."

"That ain't gonna fly," Skipper snaps. "Rico! Private!"

Rico and Private waddle over to the nearest door. Private somehow ends up on Rico's shoulders. Private pulls out a set of lock picks (_And where the hell do they stash that stuff?_ Dean wonders). Private works the lock.

"That door leads to underground tunnels to the main building," Kowalski's in full exposition mode. Skipper shoots him a dirty look. "I wanted to explain that one, Kowalski."

"Sorry, sir."

Dean's eyes narrow dangerously as he looks around. "SWAT team's headed this way. Sometime this year would be nice."

"I…I can't pick the lock, sir," Private stammers.

"Step aside," Dean growls. He puts his boot to the door and smirks a little as it flies open.

"What did I tell you, Kowalski? Better to have this young mammal on our side." Skipper crows as he waddles inside. "Operation George Peppard is a go!"

Dean scowls, but he decides it's better not even to ask.

* * *

Sam pushes Sarah in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees something large, snaky and grayish pink waving in the air. Several somethings, actually. It's a mass of tentacles, curling and twisting in mid-air. The civilians bolt in the opposite direction, Tall and Skinny Geek and Short Round take up the rear. It's a stampede, and Sam suddenly realizes that running is not gonna do them any good.

Another set of tentacles comes slamming down in front of the mob. The fugly purrs to itself as it leans over the barricade of broken furniture.

It's tired of those zoo animal appetizers. Time for the main course.

Humans.

* * *

_**A/N –**_ Two more chapters to go. Next Post is Sunday. Put the cat down, Phoebe!


	5. not the time for a salt free diet

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural or Madagascar. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 5 not the time for a salt free diet**_

His head hurts. Dean decides not to mention it. Not the first time he's ever had a headache, even though the darkness inside the tunnels hurts his eyes, and with every other blink he can feel the echo of Granny's mojo flashing white inside his nerve endings. She's messed him up inside his head, made him see things that aren't real.

That's the only explanation for any of this. Talking penguins who act like hunters. Huh.

Private hangs back. If Dean didn't know any better he'd swear the kid has a crush on him.

"Couldn't jam the lock, and there was nothing to block the door." Dean scowls as he runs. "How sure are you about these tunnels?"

"Pretty sure," Skipper says mildly. He slides on the floor on his stomach, like the others do. They move just as fast as Dean can run, maybe a little faster.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Only pretty sure?"

"Our intel dates back from the mid-1980's," Kowlaski says proudly.

"Uh, dude, hate to be the one to break it to you, but it's 2009."

"So it is. Best intel money could buy."

"Wait. You dudes have money?"

Skipper scowls. "No. I said it was the best intel money could buy if we had any. Money, that is."

"Figures."

A high-powered flashlight beam from behind puts them all in the spotlight. _**"STOP RIGHT THERE! PUT YOUR GUNS DOWN AND RAISE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"**_

Dean and Rico snarl at the same time.

"Hoover Dam!" Skipper barks. "Rico! Counter measures!"

Rico stops, opens his mouth and makes a coughing sound like he's about to hurl his guts out. Instead of guts, out come about a thousand or so steel ball bearings.

Dean's stopped wondering why, or how. No sense in trying to fight that constant buzzing in his head, so he just accepts this.

The results are pretty damn sweet, though. The members of the SWAT team start forward, but they can't see the ball bearings on the floor in the dim overhead light. It's like dominoes. One goes down flailing and then the others go down, one by one. The ones in the rear stop and fall back.

The penguins slide fast on their bellies in the opposite direction. Dean stretches out like a racehorse at the top of the stretch and runs like hell.

"Dude," Dean snarks as he passes Rico. "Nice one."

Rico smirks to himself.

* * *

_I've had better days_, Sam thinks to himself. He bulls his way through the crowd as they others scream and run in the opposite direction. Sarah snarls and punches at them, so they give her and Sam a wide berth. Trouble is, there's no where else to go. Tentacles to the right and left of them, and that back wall is solid, no doorways or exits.

Sam grabs ahold of Table Leg's ankle and pulls hard in the opposite direction as this large grey tentacle snakes around the dude's midsection and lifts him up. Doesn't matter that a few moments ago Table Leg would have bashed Sam's head in with said instrument; he's still human and damn it, Sam's determined not to lose anyone, not on his watch.

The giant penguin fugly leans over the barricade of broken furniture, eyes bright and lively as its head dips from side to side. It seems happy. It's like the damn thing has opened a box of chocolates, and doesn't know which piece to pick first.

Sam digs in his heels, but he's losing the battle to keep Table Leg among the living and uneaten. Even with Sam's height and weight it's a lost cause. Sam feels the jerk all through his body as the fug lifts his dinner up even higher. Sam's heels clear the floor by a good six inches, and he knows it's only gonna get worse.

Sarah moves in below him. She grabs at Sam's waist, hooks her hands and fingers into his belt, and pulls, hard. It doesn't help. Sarah gives a startled yelp as her heels leave the floor. Table Leg squeals like a stuck pig, and several tentacles brush lightly through Sam's shaggy hair. The fug makes an excited sound, like it's finally spotted what it wants to eat first. Out of the corner of his eye Sam sees several tentacles moving down towards him.

Sam also sees this large shaker of salt sitting on the edge of this nearby table that's standing on one edge.

He usually doesn't do things on the fly. That's Dean's thing. Big brother's phenomenal when it comes to improvising. Sam hates that. He likes to have a plan.

Another tentacle brushes up his back almost lovingly. Sam glances over his shoulder at the fugly and those red eyes gleam as it leans forward slightly. Sam's seen barbequed chicken wings at a buffet table get the same kind of hungry look.

No plan? To hell with that. Sam grabs the salt shaker with one hand just as he's jerked upwards again. Now he and Sarah are a good two feet off the ground. Sam doesn't have time to untwist the lid, so he makes his wrist loose as he flings a spray of salt out and upward in a wide arc.

He doesn't expect it to work. It wouldn't have, except maybe the patron saint of hunters might have been listening or watching, or whatever the heck it is that he or she does. The metal cap unscrews itself, and a thick spray of salt comes out. There's a sizzling sensation as the salt bounces onto that rubbery grey skin. It smells like fish and sulfur.

The fugly screams out, a loud wailing, warbling sound.

All the tentacles in the air immediately snap back over the barricade. It's raining people all of a sudden. Everyone the thing grabbed comes tumbling down in a rough landing, but as far as Sam can tell it didn't have time to eat anyone, including Table Leg.

Sam scrambles up as soon as he hits the ground. "Get…get the salt…"

Sarah's wide-eyed, but she's still steady. "Sam? What the hell did you do?"

"Salt…gotta get all the salt shakers we can find---" Sam starts pulling away tablecloths, fumbling through the debris on the floor. There were salt shakers on the table, he remembers that. They had to go somewhere, and it's not likely the fugly cleared them off before it raised up that barricade…

Said fugly's yowling, crying, like a fussy two year old kid somebody was dumb enough to sneak into a crowded movie theater. The civilians are worse than useless. They huddle underneath tables and chairs. Sam gets agitated.

Strike that.

Sam gets pissed.

He grabs the nearest one, and it happens to be Table Leg. The dude yelps when Sam puts those big hands on him. Sam's not gentle, not at all. He fills his lungs with air and out comes his command voice, loud and deep. _**"LISTEN TO ME, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! SALT HURTS IT. WE GATHER UP ENOUGH SALT WE CAN HOLD IT OFF, FIND A WAY OUT OF HERE. I'M NOT DYING, NOT TODAY, SO GET UP OFF YOUR USELESS SORRY ASS AND HELP ME, OR I'LL KICK YOUR ASS MYSELF!"**_

Dean would have thoroughly enjoyed that.

Table Leg blinks, once or twice. Then he nods and gets on his hands and knees and starts looking through the debris.

After a few seconds, so do the others.

Sarah crawls over with a tablecloth knotted at both ends. She pulls out a half-filled salt shaker, shakes it from side to side and waggles her eyebrows at Sam. "I gotta say, Sam, you really know how to show a girl a good time."

"Sarah, I'm sorry---"

Sarah laughs. "Don't be. This just means you owe me dinner. And breakfast." She blushes a little, and ducks her head.

The tips of Sam's ears get a little red.

Sarah glances upward, over her shoulder. "It's still crying, so that salt really hurt it. Now what?"

"We need a lot more than that," Sam nods at the tablecloth bag. He raises up a little, looks around, then drops back on his heels with this sly smirk on his face.

"What?"

"Waiter's station. Right over there." Sam nods at the far wall. "Got silverware. Napkins ---"

"And salt shakers," Sarah finishes.

Everyone else is still rummaging around. Several people come up with salt shakers and shyly slip them into Sarah's bag.

Sam crouches there on his heels. Sarah doesn't like that suddenly intense look on his face. She frowns. "What?"

Sam reaches down, snags another table cloth off the floor. He knots the ends closed and Sarah raises her eyebrows. Sam huffs. "I gotta go get what we need."

"I'm going with you."

"No, you're not. You need to stay low, and keep them busy." Sam nods at the tourists. He sees the worried look on her face. Sam grins. "I can make it over there and back, Sarah. I can."

"You get yourself killed I'm never speaking to you again," Sarah blurts out. "Oh God, that was lame."

"Yeah, it was. Don't worry."

Sam half crouches, turns in the direction of the waiters' station, and then stops.

He doesn't remember seeing this little old woman before. Sam feels a cold chill rake its way up his spine. It's her body language for one thing. She's upright, unafraid, standing there with her hands on her hips. She looks like any other tourist out for a day at the zoo, dressed in a green long sleeved sweater and a brown khaki skirt and white tennis shoes. Her long grey hair is pulled back from her forehead in a neat bun.

And her eyes are twice the size of a normal human's.

She blinks. Once. Slowly.

She stares at Sam, at Sarah and the rest, and then back at Sam again. "All right," she growls," and those oversized brown eyes of hers spark red. "Which one of you hoodlums hurt my pookie?"

* * *

"I don't freakin' believe this," Dean mutters to himself. He scans the brick wall in front of him. No access door. He glances down at the floor. Even in the dim overhead lights Dean can see that there's no manhole cover.

Nothing. It's a dead end.

Private stands there scratching his head with the tip of his flipper. Kowlaski pulls out his PDA and starts crunching some damn numbers. "Ah, Skipper, I think perhaps we made a mistake not paying real money for this information."

"Huh. You just can't get good intel nowadays with a couple cans of sardines, can you?" Skipper looks nonplussed. "Maybe it's a good thing we didn't have any dead Presidents to spare. Well it doesn't matter. We'll just retrace our steps. Operation George Peppard is still a go."

Dean rolls his eyes.

Rico turns and stares back down the tunnel, the way they came. SWAT team's still off in the distance, but they're getting closer.

Dean growls. "Son of a bitch."

* * *

Two more chapters to go. Next chapter posted next week.


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